Through the Blur
by Australian Surmise
Summary: When a drunken one-night stand results in a baby Bruce Banner isn't ready for, he runs off to avoid the responsibility. But soon enough he comes back out of guilt, trying to do the right thing. He suddenly finds himself alone with a kid he doesn't know how to raise, a life he's barely put back together, and an agency that might just see his son as dangerous and a potential weapon.
1. Dying Inhibitions

"Come on, you have to come. It's tradition!"

"How is me accompanying you while you get drunk and leer at women a tradition?" Bruce asks Tony, leaning against the pristine granite countertop.

"Going out and having fun for no reason at all is tradition" Tony shoots back, gesturing dramatically. "And what is fun without a bit of alcohol and a few women?"

"Tony, I'm not really - "

"Come on, Bruce," Tony continues seriously. "It'll be fun. You're allowed to have fun, you know."

Bruce turns away, without an answer, shrinking in on himself.

"Don't do this, Banner," Tony tells him in a low voice, stepping up behind him. "Don't keep wallowing in self-loathing. It doesn't help anyone."

Clint walks in then, edging around them to get at the refrigerator. "Oh, sorry," he mumbles, mouth full of something or the other. "Didn't mean to interrupt your little lovefest in the kitchen."

"Barton, we're going out drinking tonight," Tony tells him. "Wear something other than that awful SHIELD uniform."

Clint rolls his eyes. "You coming too, doc?"

"No, I - " Bruce begins, but Tony cuts him off smoothly.

"Of course he is."

Raising his eyebrows briefly, Clint shrugs. "Sounds fun." And then he laughs. "Never thought I'd be going out drinking with Iron Man and the Hulk. If only the guys at the circus could see this." He headed out of the room, still chuckling.

"Well, that's settled then," Tony says with a grin. "Get ready for a hell of a night, doc!"

"None of those snooty-ass overpriced bars, Stark," Clint calls from down the hall.

"Yeah, yeah," Tony mutters. "We'll go somewhere dingy and cheap enough for your lowborn sensibilities."

"I heard that!"

Bruce sighs resignedly.

* * *

"Come on, just one more," Tony urges, signaling the bartender to refill his glass again.

Bruce shakes his head stubbornly. "I don't do well when I'm not in control," he reminds Tony.

Tony claps him on the shoulder. "A couple drinks won't cause you to lose control," Tony tells him. Bruce has to give it to the man; he's consumed about four times the alcohol Bruce has and he's not even slurring yet.

"Well you'd be the expert on that," Bruce replies with another wry smile.

Tony laughs, a little too loudly, but that's to be expected at this point. "Of course I am. And really, you must try something better than that, doc," he says, gesturing to Bruce's drink. "Really? Hard lemonade? That's no way to impress the ladies!" He winks over at some blonde bimbo across the bar, who giggles loudly with her friends in response.

"That's not really what I'm going for."

"That's what you should be going for," Tony replies immediately, swallowing back his scotch with a grimace. "This is the last time I listen to Barton about bars," he mutters.

Bruce just smiles, looking down into his drink. He taps his fingers on the wooden bar top. It's clean enough, though he can't say the same for the floor, and the dim lights above their heads cast slight shadows across peeling brown paint on the walls.

"Oh, come on. At least try something else," Tony presses, wrinkling his nose at Bruce's drink.

"Alright, fine," Bruce agrees, tired of the argument. "You order for me, since you're the expert." Over on the other side of the room, Clint had attracted an audience to his little darts game. Watching the marksman play darts wasn't an overly interesting sight, but Bruce couldn't look away. Clint would cheer whenever he hit his target and groan when he missed his mark completely, though Bruce had the feeling he was missing on purpose now and again.. Bruce couldn't remember the last time he'd played a game, let alone darts. After a few minutes of watching, Bruce turned away and stared back into his glass.

"Alright, here we go, big guy," he hears Tony say. "I got just the thing for you."

His glass has transformed into a shot glass of bright green liquid.

Damn Tony fucking Stark.

"That is so not funny, Tony," he mutters.

Tony has the gall to put on an innocent face. "What? Oh, you mean the resemblance, color-wise, to your charming alter ego? It's just absinthe. Plenty of people drink it."

Bruce shakes his head ruefully. "I am not drinking that."

"Aw, come on, Bruce. You know you're gonna give in, why don't we skip the argument and go straight to the part where you give in?"

* * *

"You need another drink, honey?" Tony asks the blonde one on his left. Christy, he thinks she said her name was. Or maybe Cathy. Or Kirsten. Or was it Amy?

Oh, what does it matter anyway? He's about five drinks too far to worry about names. She's pretty, and that's all that really counts at this point.

Oh, what a night. Clint had gone off early with a cute girl on each arm, and he'd finally managed to get enough alcohol into Bruce that he'd wandered off with some young, dark-skinned woman. He hadn't stopped them when they'd stumbled towards the door; if there was one thing Bruce Banner needed, it was to get laid.

And so he stumbles out the door with just Mary or Lauren or Jenny, congratulating himself on such a successful night for everyone.

* * *

The first thing Bruce is aware of is the pounding pain in his head. He hasn't had pain this bad in years, he thinks dully, rolling over with a groan. Clearly he had stayed up too late last night, and -

His thoughts freeze midsentence as his arm meets something else in his bed.

It's a very long moment before he moves again, gingerly moving to see that, first of all, the tiny bedroom is clearly not his room, especially judging by the purple wallpaper and jewelry case open on the dresser. The light blue patterned comforter he's half under is warm but unfamiliar, but more importantly, there's a woman sleeping next to him. Naked.

Bruce fights back the urge to throw up, though he's not sure how much of that is his hangover.

His hangover. Yes, he'd been out drinking. He remembers Tony, plunking down a green drink in front of him with a cheeky grin, and then...

Not much. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying to will his mind to remember what he'd done last night. This is worse than when he has an incident, because then he at least has an excuse, but he _should_ remember this.

Oh God. What if he had hulked out? His mind races along side his heart. He couldn't have sex with Betty then, what if this time he had...

His fears are partially assuaged when the woman - God, he doesn't even remember her name - rolls over in her sleep. He lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. The room looks orderly enough, save from the articles of clothing strewn haphazardly on the floor, and she doesn't have any visible bruises...

So maybe he's safe. Maybe the alcohol had subdued the Hulk. Maybe he'd just gotten lucky.

And his head really fucking hurts.

Still, he scribbles his cell phone number on a sheet of paper and drops it on the pillow.

He gathers his clothes (not at all ripped or shredded) as quietly as he can and drags himself out the door.

And all he can think is _what the hell did Tony give me?_


	2. Spill Your Secrets

He hoped to get back to his room in Avengers Mansion without seeing anyone.

"Are you just getting in?"

He's really starting to wonder if the universe has a personal vendetta against him. Of course, this is Avengers Mansion, and he never asked, but he's sure Tony put together some sort of completely over-the-top security system that announces his presence the moment he steps through the gate. He pauses for a moment, just to glance over and see that it's Steve, looking perfectly put together in a black button down shirt and khaki pants. "What does it look like?" he replies, with irritation he doesn't make an effort to conceal.

"Well, it looks like you were out all night," Steve answers, though Bruce meant the question more as rhetorical. He quickly catches up, walking in stride with Bruce. "What were you doing?"

"What do you think I was doing?"

"Well...you went out drinking with Clint and Tony...so I guess you probably..." Steve colors a little, which would be cute if Bruce wasn't so damn hung-over. "Oh. So...hangover?"

"Why are you asking questions you know the answer to?" Bruce snaps, collapsing into a chair at the counter. The last thing he wants is a lecture from Captain America about his recent, though admittedly questionable, lifestyle choices. He lets his head fall onto the counter, covering it with his arms in an attempt to block out all possible light and sound.

"I've got just the thing," Steve says, far too cheerfully. "It'll get you up and running in no time. And you should lay down for awhile, and -"

Bruce groans, squinting out from the safety of his arms to watch Steve gathering various ingredients from around the kitchen. "I'm not taking advice from a man who should be too old to even hold his liquor."

Steve's well-intentioned crusade of assistance skids to a halt. "Oh," he says, and Bruce just knows he'll regret causing that kicked puppy face later. "Well...I'll leave you to it, then."

There's a few, blissful moments of silence before Steve speaks again. "I could drink you under the table, Banner."

Bruce is really in no position to argue, if his headache, nausea, and amnesia are anything to go by, but his mouth speaks of it's own accord. "Next time, grandpa."

* * *

Natasha is next, finding him still sprawled out on the countertop. "Post walk of shame, huh, Banner?"

He presses his fingers into his temples as he turns to face her. "What?" he asks, knowing his annoyance is coloring his tone.

"Walk of shame," she repeats. "The trek back home after a drunken one night stand," she says as she expertly works the industrial sized coffee pot next to the sink.

"Oh," he mutters, unable to come up with the effort to be more original in his response. "I was out with Tony and Clint -"

"You don't have to explain yourself, doc," she cuts in. "I don't judge." She sets a cup of coffee and two aspirin down in front of him before sauntering out of the room.

* * *

Clint's entrance is preceded by some of the most off key, annoying whistling Bruce has ever heard.

"Someone had a fun night."

"Don't talk to me," Bruce groans, and if he squeezes his head any harder with his hands, his skull might just crack.

The archer just laughs. "First time getting laid in what, ten years? How'd you perform, champ?"

"About as well as your arrows against modern mechanized warfare," Bruce mumbles sourly.

"Hey!" Clint says, feigning offense with an accusatory glare at him. "Don't diss the arrows. It's not their fault you can't get it up."

Bruce hurls the closest thing - an unopened bag of pistachios - at his head. Clint dodges it as he leaves the room, still laughing.

* * *

Tony's questions, at least, are predictable, if Bruce takes the time to think about it. The man can't seem to not know everything about everyone. Except Natasha, who seems exempt from his constant pestering and inappropriate questions. He makes a mental note to ask her for her secret later.

"So? How was she?"

Bruce almost wishes he had a truthful answer to that, because then he'd have some recollection of last night. "Better than you," he mutters instead.

"Wanna bet?" Tony replies with a playful grin and wiggling of his eyebrows. "Come on, Banner, I need details, I'm dying here!"

Bruce shrugs. "You know as much as I do."

"Nah, seriously. What was her name? Where'd she live? She into anything kinky?" Tony perches on the countertop, looking at Bruce expectantly.

"Well, if sex with a green monster doesn't qualify as kink, I'm not sure what does," Bruce replies dryly.

"You hulked out?!" Tony asks, eyes going almost comically wide. "Uh...how'd that turn out?"

"I don't know if I did or not, Tony. I don't remember."

"You don't remember?" Tony's tone is skeptical as he hops of the counter to head to the fridge. "Come on, it's not like I'm gonna tell anyone. I'm sure I've done worse."

Bruce sighs. The pounding in his head has subsided from rock and roll drummer to knocking down the door, leaving him mostly weary and slightly nauseous. "I really don't remember."

"You're holding out on me, Banner," Tony says, leveling a fork at Bruce accusingly. "Fine. But sooner or later, I find out, Banner. I always find out."

"Well if you do, be sure to tell me. I'd love to know what happened last night," Bruce retorts sourly.

Tony shakes his head, turning to go with a dramatic sigh. "Did you at least use the condoms I gave you?"

Bruce's head snaps up at that, though it protests quite violently at such sudden movement. "What?"

"The condoms I gave you," Tony repeats. You do know what they're for, don't you?"

Bruce frowns. "You gave them to me? Last night?"

"Are you sure you didn't hulk out?" Tony steps closer, examining his face closely. "Before you went off with her. You put them in your pocket."

Feeling foolish, Bruce reaches into his pocket, slightly surprised when his fingers find plastic there. He pulls out two condoms, holding them in his palm as he tries desperately to recall how they'd gotten there.

"Ah, that's good then," Tony says. "I gave you three."

When Bruce finally manages to get himself to his room and change clothes, he doesn't think anything of the tiny plastic packet that falls out of his other pocket. He just drops into bed and falls asleep.


	3. Let it Come

_Not a single object in the room seems to have edges; each color blurs into the next so maybe there aren't any objects in the room, maybe they're alone with the mud-colored walls and squeaky bed frame, alone except for each other.  
_

_He's so warm, so sensitive, and he can't come up with a conscious thought to save his life, but it doesn't matter, how can words possibly matter when the world is a chaotic blend of color and sound and feeling?_

_A hand, in his hair, stroking, petting, tugging, _yanking_ until he lets his head fall back. And there's nothing he can do but let the feelings overwhelm him as they slam into him one after the other, each with tidal wave force, demanding his wholehearted attention._

_Dark skin under his lips, under his tongue, under his teeth, and dark hair in his fingers, and it feels so good, so _impossibly good_, and maybe, just maybe it won't end, maybe they can stay here like this forever, maybe all that really matters are the feelings and sensations and caresses._

_Because if this lasts, he can forget about fear and anger and monsters in the dark, if he can just hold onto this feeling, can keep some souvenir of it, he has a chance of being whole again..._

Bruce wakes up slowly, sweaty beneath the sheets. He lies there for along time, trying to piece together the memories, but they are as slippery as the dream. So he closes his eyes and lets himself drift back off. False hopes aren't worth clinging to.

He doesn't dream of it again. Whether it's his subconscious running rampant with a mind of its own, or he simply doesn't remember the night, and the other dream was simply his own fantasy given a viable outlet, he doesn't know, or particularly care.

Clint's teasing runs its course after about three days, and after a week even Tony lets the matter rest. Bruce forgets it himself, somewhere in between the Skrull attack in central park and the Zodiac episode in Paris that took _days_ to rectify.

One night of memory loss just doesn't seem all that important.

It's been almost a month when he gets a call from a number he doesn't know on the Stark Industries phone Tony had given him after Loki's attack. He only ever gets calls from the team, and the odd S.H.I.E.L.D. agent (sometimes he wonders if he should worry about those forcibly casual calls). But this reads _Cell Phone NY_ beneath it, so he writes it off as a wrong number and declines to answer.

But the next day the number calls again. And again.

The fourth time, Bruce finally picks up.

"Hello?" he says, a little uncertainly.

"Oh, thank God." It's a woman's voice, breathless with either anxiety or relief (or both, Bruce expects).

"I'm sorry, ma'am, do I know you?" he inquires, scanning the computer results in the mansion's lab_. If he could just isolate the edited strain of Steve's DNA, then he could probably trace the serum's markers all the way through the process..._

"Um..." stalls the voice. "Yes, you do. We...we spent the night together a little while ago."

_Then if he can track the changes in Steve, maybe he can_ - he snaps back to the phone conversation as the words penetrate his science-addled mind. "Oh," he replies quickly. "Oh yes. Of course." And he still doesn't remember her name. _Damn it,_ he thinks wearily, and searches his brain for a way to let her down easy, to tell her he isn't really a relationship kind of guy.

"I...uh...I wanted to talk to you," she informs him. "It's...kind of important." She pauses for a second. "I'm really sorry, but I'm not sure I ever got your name."

"Bruce Banner," he breathes, happy that they are at least on equal terms on this. "And...sorry, yours?"

"Brianna Taylor," comes the somewhat relieved sounding reply, though that could be wishful thinking on Bruce's part. "Bruce, I don't know how to say this, exactly, but -"

"Look, Brianna, I'm not really looking for a relationship right now, so -"

"No, you don't understand -"

"So I don't really know if we need to be having this conversation as -"

"I have to tell you -"

"Maybe we should stop -"

"I'm pregnant!" she bursts out, and Bruce's world ceases its rotating with those two words.

"Hello? Bruce, are you there?" Silence. "Hello?"

"Yes, I'm here," he finally answers hoarsely, fingers gripping the edge of the desk in front of him. "You're...you're sure?"

"Yes," she murmurs. "I saw the doctor."

"And..." he pauses, sucking in a deep breath through his nose. "And you're sure...it's mine?"

He hears her inhale sharply on the other side of the phone. "I don't sleep around," she all but snarled. "I don't make a habit of one night stands."

"No, of course not," Bruce agrees, backpedaling immediately. "I didn't mean to imply -"

"That I'm a slut?" she replies with unconcealed bitterness in her tone. "Look, man, I'm gonna be getting a lot of that shit from my friends and family. So I really don't need it from the man who got me into this."

Bruce stares at the floor for a long moment before sighing. "No, you're right. I'm sorry." He rubs his face tiredly. "What...I mean when...who..." he trails off uncertainly.

"Maybe we should meet somewhere," Brianna says smoothly. "To talk about this. And get to know each other."

With a sigh Bruce slouches back in his chair. "Yes. I suppose that's probably best."

"How about tonight?"

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Bruce answers hesitantly, "Yes, that should be fine."

"Okay. Is a Starbucks alright?"

"Oh, sure," Bruce agrees absently, already dreading it. _Oh God, how could this have happened... _"But - just to let you know, sometimes my...my job calls me in suddenly. I'll call you back if anything changes."

"Oh? What do you do?"

Bruce smiles despite himself. "I'm an Avenger."

There's a long silence on her side of the line. "Man, we really need to talk."

"Tonight, 7:30?"

"Yeah. The Starbucks on Second Avenue."

"See you tonight," he mutters.

As soon as she hung up Bruce collapsed, banging his head gently against the table.

She's pretty, and looks at least 15 years younger than him, which is all he decides upon entering the Starbucks and seeing a young black woman sitting by herself. He walks over to her, trying to stop the shaking in his hands as he approaches the table.

She lets him buy her a nonfat mocha latte, and he gets himself a strong cup of black coffee before sitting down across from her.

Smiling uncertainly, she twists her cup between manicured hands. "So...I'm Brianna. I, uh, I work as a pharmacist. I'm 32, never been married. I grew up here, in NYC, lived here all my life.

When Brianna trails off, Bruce swallows hard before responding. "I'm Bruce Banner. I have a doctorate in experimental physics. I'm 45, and I've been traveling for the past decade, working as a freelance medical doctor in places that needed help, mostly..."

Her dark eyes considered him for a long moment. He looked down at his cup between his hands, trying to find the words to explain everything else. _And in my spare time I turn into a green rage monster that destroys everything in its path_. Yeah .That'd go over real well.

But she takes control of that issue for him. "You said you're an Avenger," she says slowly, and at his nod she continues, "Well you're not Captain America, Thor, or the guy with the arrows," she decides, and Bruce swallows back a laugh. 'Guy with the arrows'. He can see Clint's mortally offended face now. "And you're not a girl, and you're definitely not Tony Stark." He smiles, just a little, knowing what comes next. "So you must be the Hulk," she finishes, expression inscrutable.

He can only nod mutely to affirm her deduction. They sit in silence for a long time, avoiding each other's eyes. Finally, Bruce says in a low murmur, "So you see why a baby should be avoided at all cost."

Her head snaps up violently at that, eyes suddenly burning with passion. "No, I don't," she snaps in a low, dangerous voice. "I don't see how who the baby's parents are could possibly be cause for killing a child."

Bruce reels, taken aback by her sudden vehemence. "There's no way of knowing how my genes will affect a child," he tells her in what he hopes is a calm, steady voice, though he suspects otherwise. "There could be great danger to you. To the world. The child cannot be born."

"You think the child will have your...issues?" she asks, tone still aggressive and hostile.

"It's impossible to know," he responds hollowly. "This...situation has never existed before. There's nothing to go off of, nothing to take as an example."

"So we're in uncharted territory," she says with a shrug. "I'm not afraid of trying something new."

"This isn't trying a new food at a restaurant!" he yells exasperatedly, seizing her wrist in a crushing grip with truly noticing.

And it's like time has stopped, and Bruce becomes painfully aware of the heads turned their way after his outburst. He breathes through his nose, trying to rein himself back in.

Brianna is looking at his hand on her wrist, mouth pressed into a tight line. "Let me go," she finally mutters, steel in her voice.

Bruce follows her eyes and releases her arm as if burned. She folds her hands in her lap, out of sight, pushing her chair a few inches further back from the table. Bruce automatically drops his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Sorry," he mutters.

She regards him for a couple minutes before looking back down at the table. Sitting in silence, Bruce has the time to observe her perfectly pressed blouse and flawless hair and make up, which all combine to make his rumpled shirt and jeans feel quite inadequate.

He probably should have dressed a little nicer to meet the mother of his child.

_No, no, no! _He would _not_ allow this child to be born. What kind of life could it possibly have, with his radioactive genes?

"A child born with my genes could have an infinite number of conditions, birth defects, genetic issues, that could manifest themselves in countless ways. His or her life would be an endless trial of medical and emotional issues, not to mention social issues. And...and the government watches me - I'm considered dangerous, and my offspring would likely be viewed the same way. And such a pregnancy could be extremely dangerous to you. There's no way to predict the size of the child, the _species_, even. Birth alone could kill both of you," he explains, trying to keep desperation out of his voice. "An abortion is best for everyone, on all sides."

"Not for me," she snaps. "I don't believe in abortion, and that's the end of the issue." She stands up, glaring at him fiercely. "I'm sorry we don't see eye to eye on this, Bruce. But you need to start working through your own issues, because they're no longer relevant. In about eight months you're about to be a father, so you better get your shit together."

Bruce just sits there, staring at her back as she stalks out the door.


	4. Listen to Me

"Bruce, if you keep calling me to harass me about killing our child, I'm going to start calling you in the middle of the night to discuss diaper brands." Brianna sounds tired tonight, which makes sense. Tuesday is her early day at the pharmacy. It was probably terribly insensitive of him to call her as soon as she got off.

Bruce can't bring himself to care. He's running out of time to make her see reason; it's been almost two months and his window of opportunity is closing rapidly. He needs to succeed, and fast.

"Sorry. I just think -"

"I'm well aware of what you think," she cuts him off briskly. "When will you get it through your thick head that this isn't your decision?"

"When you start thinking rationally," he snaps back.

Brianna sighs loudly. "I'm sorry," she mutters wearily. "I'm just tired. I had a long day, and the last thing I want to do is argue about the baby."

"If you want..." he licks his lips nervously. "If you want, you could come over. I'll cook for you. Whatever you like."

She doesn't answer for a time. Finally she says, "Not tonight, Bruce. I'm tired." And she hangs up unceremoniously.

_Damn it,_ he thinks. _I really, really suck at this._

* * *

He promises himself he won't call her for at least three days.

He lasts two, and then decides he'll see her in person. He painstakingly cooks a simple dinner - steak, medium rare, carefully seasoned mashed potatoes, and perfectly cooked asparagus - packs it up, and heads over to her apartment.

It only occurs after he's waiting for her to answer the door that this could be perceived as creepy. Maybe he should have called first...

But just as he's about to consider leaving, the door opens and Brianna blinks at him, surprise clear on her face. She raises her eyebrows questioningly.

Bruce holds up the bag of food. "I cooked dinner," he tells her softly. "I thought we could eat. And talk."

"If you're here to harass me some more, save your breath."

He raises his free hand in a peaceable gesture. "We can talk about other things. We barely know each other." She seems to hesitate a moment longer, so he adds, "I brought steak."

And she laughs at that, and Bruce wouldn't have thought it possible, but she's even prettier when she laughs. "You're lucky I'm a poor, lazy pharmacist who loves a good meal," she says as she moves aside to let him in.

* * *

"So...uh...how was your day?" Bruce hedges as soon as they're perched on a couch in her living room, plates and forks in hand.

Brianna shrugs. "The usual. Filled prescriptions, explained drugs to senior citizens, fought with insurance companies. Yours?"

"I...uh...I sat around in a lab and watched computer screens, mostly. It was a quiet day."

Silence falls again while Bruce fumbles again for something to say. "So...how about them Yankees?"

His awkwardness brings a faint smile to her face. "I don't follow baseball."

_Neither do you, Banner_, he reminds himself. _Good going._ "Some interesting weather we've been having, huh?"

Her lips quirk up again. "You know, once you've become acquainted with someone else's genitals, you get to skip the discussion of the weather."

Bruce can feel the blood rushing to his face. "Uh, right," he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously. "So...do you...are you seeing anyone?"

She smiles again, clearly enjoying his discomfort. "Not really any of your business, but no, I'm not," she responds calmly.

"You could help me out here, you know," Bruce tells her, irritation growing.

"But where would the fun be in that?" she asks with a small laugh. "I'm very much enjoying watching you attempt to hold a conversation."

"Well at least one of us is getting something out of this, " he snaps, annoyed, though more at himself than at her.

"Aw, don't be like that," she says in what could be considered a consoling voice. "I'm just teasing, alright? I spent half the day running back and forth from the bathroom with morning sickness and then craving the strangest things my body could come up with, and being disgusted by my favorite foods. So yeah, I'm getting some amusement out of your failure at talking to women. Sue me."

His mouth responds before his brain can tell it otherwise. "If you got the abortion, you wouldn't have those symptoms."

She moves so fast he barely has time to register it before her fist collides with his face.

The Hulk rages behind his eyes and Bruce closes them shut tightly in an attempt to control his physical reaction. His fists clench involuntarily as he fights to rein his body back in. _You're not under attack. You're safe, you're safe._

When he finally opens his eyes again, Brianna is watching him from across the room, a wary look on her face. They lock gazes for a long moment before he slumps back against the ouch, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes with a groan.

She comes back and sits down next to him, just a little tentatively.

"Sorry," he mutters. "That was...I shouldn't have said that. But maybe it would be better if you didn't hit me. For safety's sake."

"You deserved it," she snaps back, but it sounds half-hearted at best to Bruce.

"You're right, I did," he agrees mildly, picking up his plate and pushing a stray piece of steak around with his fork. "But still..."

"Yeah, I probably shouldn't have punched you," she repeats with a sigh. "Sorry. That's just usually how I handle guys being assholes."

He doesn't know what to say to that, so he says nothing, opting to idly eat a bite of his asparagus.

"What are we doing here, Bruce?" she asks softly. "This squabbling isn't helping anyone. We need to start making plans."

Bruce stares at his plate. "What kind of plans?"

"Who's going to be taking care of the baby, and when. Getting some sort of nursery. Working out how to pay for all the things we're going to need to take care of this kid. Making sure I'm doing everything to ensure a healthy pregnancy."

"I think..." he starts hesitantly, licking his lips. "I think that if you're dead set on having this baby, we should consider the possibility that this baby would be better off without me as its father. I would do more harm than good for the kid."

Brianna rolls her eyes. "Come on, Bruce. That's bullshit."

"No, it's not," he replies emphatically. "I'm dangerous, Brianna, you have to understand that."

"You help save the world. You're dangerous, but you use it the right way. You know how to control it."

"Sometimes," he agrees. "But under stress..." He shakes his head with a rueful smile. "The baby would be better off without me. Completely."

Brianna's mouth twists sadly for a moment before she responds. "I grew up without a father. My mom said he loved me. Maybe he did. But the fact is I never knew him. I don't want my child growing up with that same situation. I want you in the baby's life.

"So please, Stop all this drama about an abortion. It's not happening. So let's focus on making a life for this baby."

She leans toward him, putting her hand gently on her arm. "Stop pushing me away, Bruce. Life is different now. Let's work with it."

* * *

They have dinner together twice more. He doesn't mention the abortion again, and she doesn't hit him again.

Month three comes and goes. Bruce stares at the clock on the wall of his room in Avengers Mansion the night of the thirty-first and watches the minutes tick away to midnight.


	5. Avoidance Isn't the Answer

The real question is what the child will be like. There's no way to know.

Bruce stares into his almost empty glass of brandy, hoping it might show him the answers. If he could just know what the match would produce, he could figure out how to handle, contain, and, if need be, fix it.

But, just like the rest of his life, he can't know. His scientist training tells him he _needs _to know, needs to find out, using any and all means possible, and it's frustrating, so frustrating, that he can do absolutely nothing but wait.

Wait, and drink.

He hasn't called her this week. Bruce knows he should, if for no other reason than to check up on her and make sure her pregnancy hasn't gone awry.

He could just see himself being sued by her family for wrongful death or some other legal bullshit. Wouldn't that just be the cherry on top of this fucked up ice cream sundae.

It occurs to him, as he refills his glass again, that he doesn't know if she has any family. If not, they should look into viable day care centers. Or a babysitter. What if he's needed on a mission and Brianna has to work? Oh God, and who could they possibly get to babysit the kid...?

The weight of it all swallows him up, condensing in on him until all he can hear is the pounding of his heart and the rush of the alcohol. He downs another gulp to attempt to ground himself, but the buzz just pushes him further of his unstable perch.

He swallows another gulp to chase away the thoughts and worry and problems.

Just a little more, he thinks morosely. Just a little more, and maybe he'll feel better.

* * *

"Heads up, doc!"

Bruce barely has time to flinch before the tennis ball Tony and Clint have been tossing around the living room hits him squarely in the back of the head. He rubs the spot it hit reflexively, blinking at Clint with a quiet "ow" on his lips.

"Sorry, Banner," Tony calls from across the room.

Steve sighs from across the room, staring, clearly frustrated, at the tablet in his hands. "Do you have to do that in here? We have a gym for a reason."

"It's alright," Bruce offers mildly, glancing back down at the papers spread out on the coffee table in front of him. He thinks he must have read them all at least twice now, and is nowhere close to gleaning any amount of useful information from them.

"Hey, so what's up, doc?"

Bruce looks up to see Tony perched on the edge of the couch. His confusion bust be written on his face, because Tony continues, "Come on. You've been quieter than usual, which for you is close to dead silent. Not even a snappy retort when Cap chastises us? Seriously, Banner, what's going on?"

Bruce has to drop his eyes before Tony's piercing gaze compels him to say more than he wants to. He wouldn't know how to even begin to tell the team about this. He can already see Steve's disapproving glare, hear Tony and Clint's teasing and wisecracks, mixed with real sympathy, concern, and worst of all, pity, and Natasha's inscrutable gaze. He's already the loner, the outsider, the loose cannon. He doesn't need this tainting their perception of him, ruining the camaraderie. This is bad enough on its own.

So he pulls up his best Bruce Banner half smile, and flashes it at Tony. "Nothing's going on, Tony. Just getting close to a breakthrough, I think. I kind of have a one track mind when I get involved in experiments, he fudges smoothly.

Tony's eyes narrow, and he opens his mouth to reply, but Jarvis comes over the intercom with the alarm just in time. _Avengers Assemble_, Bruce thinks as Steve and Clint stride out of the room to suit up.

"Saved by the bell," Tony says, just a little accusingly, before he follows suit.

Bruce is all too happy to strip off his shirt and pull on his stretchiest pair of pants. He's even happier to step outside the mansion and let the roaring vortex of anger inside his mind consume him, his conscious mind shut down in one fell swoop.

* * *

_Hey Bruce, it's Brianna. I was thinking we could get together and do something tonight. Give me a call back._

Beep.

_It's Brianna again. I have off on Friday so maybe we could go out and do something. Or we could stay in. Whatever. Just call me back._

Beep.

_Okay, Bruce, this is getting a little ridiculous. I know you're busy, but come on, can't you just return a phone call? Maybe you're out of the country - I guess the apocalypse doesn't always start in New York? Seems like it does, though. Anyway. Call me back._

Beep.

_I'm starting to take this personally, man. I don't know what your problem is, but seriously, learn a little courtesy and call a lady back. I'm trying to be understanding here, but I'm mostly ending up angry. So fucking call me back. Please._

Beep.

_Look, I'm hormonal, bitchy, and my clothes no longer fit. So pick up the phone, dial my number, and call me. You owe me that much. I'm not going to call again. So if you want to be an asshole and ignore me and your child, so be it, but know that this is not the end. Don't put it past me to stalk up to Avengers Mansion loud and pregnant. Women know how to make a scene._

Beep.

The last call is from almost a week ago. Bruce sighs as he sets down the phone. He knows he should've called her back, but he was hoping...well, he doesn't know what the hell he was hoping. It was just easier to ignore the issue.

He's going to need flowers. Lots of flowers.

* * *

Bruce blows about half of his last Avengers paycheck on roses and lilies and daisies and whatever genetically crossed flowers seem to be the least bit aesthetically pleasing at the moment. He doesn't buy much besides food and extra stretchy clothes now and again, so it's not like he'll miss the money.

Still, he thinks that this is a sign he's been around Tony for far too long when he trudges up three flights of stairs (he takes one look at the enclosed metal box that is the elevator and balks), laden with more flowers than are probably possible for him to carry.

Maybe that's not such a bad thing. Tony definitely has a way with women, at least.

Brianna opens the door at his awkward knock, takes in the multitude of flowers for all of two seconds, and slams the door in his face.

_Well,_ he thinks wryly, _I probably deserved that. _But he doesn't feel like giving up tonight. No, he bought far too many flowers for that.

So he waits. And then waits a little more.

Eventually he sinks to the floor, idly browsing the games someone loaded onto his phone for something to pass the time. He can't stand that angry birds game Clint likes to play...and really? "Avengers Alliance?" Tony's sense of humor clearly has no boundaries, he thinks as he examines the ferocious caricature of his alter ego. He settles for a poorly remade version of Pac Man.

He's finally figured out the controls when the door opens again. Bruce hastily shoves the phone into his jacket pocket and looks up with a sheepish smile.

Brianna leans against the doorframe, considering him for a long moment, making Bruce want to slink away under her scrutiny. Finally she eyes the mass of petals and stems on the floor. "There better be something edible in that mess."

Bruce swallows, scrambling to his feet. "No, but I'll go get something. Right now. Anything you want."

"Ice cream. Chocolate."

"Got it," he agrees immediately, heading toward the stairwell. "Any place in specific?" he asks over his shoulder.

She smiles, a little too happily, back at him. "You're a smart guy. You'll figure it out."

* * *

He feels pretty pathetic standing at her door amidst the expanse of flowers, a gallon tub of ice cream in hand. He never even felt this stupid stumbling over his words as he tried to ask his chem lab partner out to prom in high school.

When Brianna lets him in, he spends the next minutes moving all of the floral paraphernalia into the apartment and arranging them around the room while Brianna sits on the couch, feet up on the coffee table, eating ice cream with a spoon out of the tub and watches him putter around.

"Feeling better?" he asks lightly as he finishes arranging a vase of roses on the table in front of her.

"Oh, a bit," she replies mildly. "Repentant boyfriend always lifts a girl's spirits."

Bruce freezes midstride in his path to the trash can. "We're not..."

She waves her spoon dismissively. "Just words, father of my child."

"Maybe we should stick with boyfriend," he mutters, grabbing a spoon and heading over to the couch.

When he reaches into the ice cream tub, though, she smacks his wrist lightly with her own. "Hands off if you want to keep them," she says, face serious.

He licks the ice cream off his wrist and fakes disappointment enough that she laughs and relents, moving the tub in between them on the couch. "Alright, I'm starting to forgive you."

They spend the rest of the night eating large quantities of ice cream, watching Law & Order reruns, and bickering over the attempts of fictional crime shows to depict reality.

By the end of the night she's leaning up against him, laying her head on his chest as she makes some crack about the newest serial killer's newest victim.

Bruce is scared by how much he doesn't mind.


	6. Solutions Don't Align

He's just not cut out to be a father, he decides one morning over a bowl of lukewarm oatmeal. He doesn't know the first thing about children, let alone babies, and would hurt a kid more than he would help with his atrocious attempts at parenting.

_Yes, _he thinks. _I'm just not cut out to be a father._

He then proceeds to repeat that to himself until he's completely convinced it's the truth.

* * *

Month five brings frantic phone calls at all hours, describing how she can feel the baby moving, and entreaties for him to come over immediately and feel for himself.

He usually talks to her until she's calmed down and promises to come over the next day.

Which usually doesn't happen. Bruce comes up with some sort of excuse - "I have an Avengers thing," usually - and the whole cycle starts over again.

Month six brings cranky, frustrated Brianna who loses patience with his avoidance scheme. She calls him about twice a week with snappy retorts and biting comments enough to give even Tony a run for his money. Usually the conversation ends with Bruce feeling suitably chastened and Brianna just about as angry as when he picked up the phone.

Month seven starts with a short phone call.

"Come over. Now."

Bruce stares at the phone for eight minutes, swallowing down his hesitance, before getting up, grabbing his jacket, and heading out of the mansion.

* * *

She calls for him to come in, and when he cracks the door open slowly, she's standing at the kitchen sink, looking out the tiny window, arms crossed over her protruding stomach. Brianna doesn't look up as he shuts the door quietly behind himself. And then Bruce stands there awkwardly.

"I'm trying to be mad at you," she says after awhile, voice sounding forcibly disinterested. "Because you're an asshole who's purposely avoiding me. And I'm not sure how much more of this shit I can take, Bruce." Brianna lets out a frustrated sigh. "I should be furious, but all I seem to be capable of is crying."

Bruce shifts his weight between his feet for a few moments before attempting a response. "So...uh...do you want me to get you something? Or...to leave? What can I do to help?"

"You can stop avoiding me," she nearly snarls, still not looking at him. "But...but what I really want is for you to hold me right now, although all my feminist instincts tell me I should kick your ass."

_God, what an awful mess_, Bruce thinks morosely. _If I can't even handle this when the kid isn't even born yet, how can I possibly deal with raising the child?_

But enough on that for now. Right now he has a clearly distraught woman looking at him for some sort of assistance. He supposed the hero in him can't sit idly by when he could be helping.

When did he begin to consider himself a hero?

He walks up behind Brianna and wraps his arms around her waist from behind.

They stand there for a long couple of minutes. "Your back probably hurts," he thinks aloud. "And your feet. Maybe you should sit down."

Brianna nods wordlessly and lets him guide her over to the couch, sitting down and propping her feet up. She leans back against him, and he gently massages her tense shoulder muscles.

They sit in silence for a long time, and he just continues to work on her shoulders. Finally, she says quietly, "Thank you."

"It's the least I can do," he replies softly.

"Damn right," she mutters.

Bruce only hums quietly in passive agreement.

There's another long silence before Brianna speaks again. "He calmed down," she remarks.

"Who?"

She shifts against his chest. "The baby."

"Oh," Bruce replies automatically. The baby's a boy. He's going to have a son. He has to swallow hard before speaking again. "It's a boy."

"Yeah," she agrees, sounding mildly surprised. "I've known for awhile. I thought I told you."

"No."

"Oh. Well. I thought with all the possible surprises, we didn't need to be surprised about the gender."

"Yeah," he agrees absently. A boy. It's a boy.

"He's healthy, you know."

"What?"

She sighs, sounding a little irritated. "The baby is healthy. The doctor says he's very strong, and a good size. The perfect picture of prenatal health."

Bruce's heart swells with that news, the possibility of a healthy, _normal_ child welling up inside him.

He squashes it down decisively. He will not give in to false hopes. Not again. Never again.

Besides, so what if the baby's perfectly normal? Even if he is, how can Bruce possibly hope to be any sort of acceptable father for him? He'll give the kid all sorts of complexes and psychological issues, and then Brianna will _really _hate him. Why she doesn't already, he can't possibly fathom, but...

"You think too much," Briana murmurs sleepily. "A healthy baby is a good thing. The end."

He laughs silently, because that's never the end. Not for him.

* * *

Brianna chooses month eight to debate names. Bruce wants nothing to do with it, and tells her she can choose any name she wants.

She complains, but gives up the argument eventually, muttering under her breath all the while.

Bruce chooses month eight to hate himself, mostly. He spends a lot of time wondering what could possibly be worse than having a Hulk for a father, and the rest of the time wondering how he could possibly take care of a child without committing several grievous parental errors resulting in imminent danger.

And if the kid hulks out? The weight of his destruction would be on Bruce's shoulders, not to mention conscience, adding yet another layer to the grave he's neatly dug for himself.

He needs to extricate himself from this situation as soon as possible. But he can't see a way out. Brianna won't let him back out as gracefully as he can, and she knows where he lives...There's no way out, not this time.

Unless...

The solution hits him like a building collapsing in on him. It's the only way - Brianna won't be able to guilt him into anything, because Brianna won't be able to find him. He knows how to go off the grid, spent nearly ten years on the run. Avoiding one woman - and maybe the state of New York social services - won't be difficult at all after hiding from the United States military and S.H.I.E.L.D. all those years.

It'll be easy. All he has to do is go. Quick and painless.

He packs a bag of only the essentials. Clothes, toothbrush, soap, a large amount of cash. Two disposable cell phones, a cheap watch. A copy of the subway and bus schedules.

After some thought he pulls his passport from the drawer next to his bed. It had been nice, he thinks, to feel like a person again, a part of society. He stares at his name, _Robert Bruce Banner_, printed on the blue paper inside the brand new little book for awhile before stashing it safely in the side of his bag.

His phone beeps on top of his nightstand, and he reaches for it reflexively. It's a text from Brianna, with a picture attached.

_Long day. Doc says all is well. Dinner and a movie tonight?_

He looks at the picture - an ultrasound printout - and is doused by a wave of guilt at leaving her now, in the middle of her pregnancy, like a teenage boy leaving his girlfriend because he'd gotten her pregnant.

He supposes he should at least make sure she doesn't have any complications. So he takes a deep breath, forcing his on-the-run instincts back down, and stows his bag under his bed, and then texts back, _Sounds great._

* * *

Bruce barely notices when month nine starts.

He does notice, however, when Briana starts maternity leave about two weeks before the baby's due, though that's largely because it leaves her much more time to call him.

The third day of her maternity leave he brings her dinner - American style Chinese takeout that she loves even though Bruce thinks it tastes more like a Chinese sewer than a Chinese meal - and they have a quiet night at her apartment.

That night he's awakened by an insistent buzzing from his cell phone. He sleepily presses at the screen, blinking blearily at the text message.

_Baby's coming. Taking taxi to hospital._

Bruce grabs his bag and hurries out the door.


	7. We're Still Here

The mission had gone as well as could have been expected. Clint had been reckless and hopelessly arrogant, as usual, but it had all worked out. They'd taken down the cartel, snapped the ring of criminals clearly in half, and gotten out of Sarajevo before anyone could question who they were.

And, as usual, Clint had gone off with the first blonde who batted her eyelashes at him as soon as he'd walked out of HQ. Natasha is used to it, and walks the few blocks to the mansion alone, exhausted and feeling in desperate need of a hot shower.

It's well past midnight, so she expects the walk to her room to be deserted. She's done this enough to know that Stark's almost always in his workshop or in bed with someone at this hour, Rogers is either in the gym punching or in his room alone, and she never really sees Banner after eight o'clock.

So she's a little taken aback to come face to face with him in the hallway, carrying a bag just like when he came aboard the helicarrier.

He smiles at her uncertainly. "Hey, Natasha."

Natasha only raises her eyebrows at him. "Going somewhere, doc?"

He swallows visibly. "Just a quick trip," he lies. "I'll be back soon."

_Men, _she thinks with a small smile. _Such obvious tells. _"I told you, I don't judge. You don't need to lie to me."

"I don't need to tell you where I'm going, either," he counters.

"You do if you want to get passed me," she replies softly.

She can see every muscle in his body tense. "Am I a prisoner, then, Agent Romanoff?" he asks, wry smile back in place. "I think I preferred the cage. At least then it was straightforward."

Natasha smiles in return. "The cage was SHIELD. This is me." She shrugs. "You're no one's prisoner, unless you know something I don't. But I will make it difficult for you to leave."

Bruce presses his lips together for a brief moment. "You think that's going to work out?"

Natasha crosses her arms with something akin to a scowl. It's too late to be doing this. "Just tell me why," she murmurs. "What'd we do wrong? It seemed like you liked the team."

"The team's great," he replies. "I do like the team. I just can't...I can't be here anymore."

"Here? In New York? Scared of a few crowds, Bruce?"

He shakes his head with a chuckle. "Calcutta was more crowded than New York."

"So what, then?" she presses. "Someone bothering you? I can help with that. People are easy."

"No, I...I just need to remove myself from this situation."

"Come on, doctor," she murmurs. "Don't insult my intelligence. Just tell me what this is all about, and you can go on your way."

Natasha can see his resolve crumbling, and she steps closer. "Come on, Bruce. What's so terrible that you'd leave in the middle of the night, like some thief?"

Bruce turns away from her, looking to the opposite wall. "You'll take everything I say straight to Fury."

"No, I won't," she replies firmly. "I'm a spy. I know how to keep secrets."

"Even from SHIELD?" he asks skeptically.

Natasha raises her eyebrows with a knowing smile. "There are many things SHIELD doesn't know," she informs him. "But if you're so worried about them finding out, whispering about it in the middle of a hallway with an AI listening in probably wasn't the smartest idea," she finishes, voice so low he can barely catch the words.

Bruce goes silent, and Natasha just watches him for a moment. Then she pushes past him. "Come on, doc."

When they're in her room, she sits down and points to the chair opposite her. "Jarvis can't see or hear in here." She crosses her arms across her chest and leans back. "Now tell me everything."

* * *

Brianna stares at the tiny face staring up at her from her arms. The tiny, innocent face they've brought into the world. She glances at her phone, sitting next to her on the hospital bed, and then sighs, pressing the button to wake up the screen for what must be at least the hundredth time. Her mouth twists at the lack of new messages that come up with the clock.

She's not stupid, and she knows deep down somewhere she shouldn't be surprised. She's been in labor for nearly fourteen hours, and he hasn't even called in all that time. It's time to face the facts, she knows, but she decides she's earned the right to hold on to her comforting delusions for just a little while longer.

Idly, she presses the button on her phone again.

"He's beautiful."

Brianna starts, cradling the baby protectively to her chest. There's a woman with striking red hair standing in the doorway. Brianna recognizes her from the news footage. "He's gone, isn't he?" she asks softly, looking back at the newborn in her arms.

"Is that a shock?" the woman asks, voice calm and controlled.

Brianna can't help but laugh. "No, I suppose it shouldn't be."

The redhead walks in, sitting down in a chair next to the bed. "What's his name?"

"Robert," Brianna replies softly. "Robert William Banner."

* * *

Tony yawns and takes another sip of his coffee, staring at the computer screen. He just can't seem to find the bug in his newest program that's making his suit reset every twenty minutes, without fail.

Bruce promised to help with it first thing today. Tony glances at his watch - 9:45. Everyone in the mansion is usually up by now. That's odd. "Jarvis, is Banner still asleep?"

"Doctor Banner is not in his room, sir."

Huh. He never forgets to come for time in the lab. "Where is he?"

"I am unable to locate him on the premises. Would you like me to track his cell phone?"

"Sure, give it a try," Tony agrees, scanning the lines of code again. Banner must've forgotten, or spent the night out, though Tony finds either explanation rather unlikely.

"His phone appears to be off, sir."

_Off?_

They're never supposed to have their phones off, in case of a sudden emergency. Tony frowns. "When'd he leave, Jarvis?"

"I seem to have no record of Doctor Banner leaving the mansion, sir. I have him entering the premises and going to his room at 11:23pm. But I have no record of him leaving, and yet I can't seem to locate him on the premises now."

Tony freezes. "What, he just disappeared?"

"It would seem so, sir," Jarvis responds, sounding hesitant and even the slightest bit chagrined. "Perhaps it is a bug, and a more manual investigation might prove worthwhile."

"Alright. I'll go check it out," Tony agrees, stretching as he gets to his feet. "Chill out, Jarv. We'll figure it out. Just run a diagnostic while I go find him."

Shaking his head, Tony bounds up the stairs. Computers can be so unreliable.

* * *

"Sir, it seems that we may have a problem."

"A problem, Agent Hill?" Fury crosses his arms resolutely, peering at her. "Care to elaborate on that statement?"

"We've gotten no location from Doctor Banner's phone in over four hours," Hill says. "We got into the mansion's surveillance system. He's not there. We started running images from public surveillance cameras an hour ago, and we can't seem to find him anywhere."

"You mean to tell me that the most dangerous man on the planet has suddenly disappeared?" Fury asks, leveling Hill with a cold gaze. "We just _lost_ him?"

She presses her lips together. "Yes, sir."

Fury turns on his heel and strides out of the command room.

"Sir, where are you going?" Hill calls after him.

"To investigate," he replies without stopping.

* * *

"Has _anyone_ seen Banner?"

"Give it a rest, Stark," Clint calls from the couch. "Banner's a big boy. He can take care of himself."

"This isn't like him," Tony insists, glancing around the room. "He just disappears from the security feed. That means something must have happened."

"It's just a glitch, Tony," Steve tells him with a shrug. "Isn't that what you told me? Computers have problems."

On any other day, Tony would have congratulated Steve on his correct usage of the word "glitch". Today, he's just not in the mood. "Not like this. The footage is perfect - pristine, even - I couldn't have done it better myself. Jarvis just couldn't _glitch_ like that. Besides, I ran a diagnostic, there's nothing wrong. Someone - and someone good - had to have tampered with it."

"Someone good?" Thor echoes from his place at the table where he's paused in shoveling food into his mouth at a breakneck speed. "Are there many such people?"

"I can think of at least a dozen I know personally," Clint mutters. "Banner himself high on that list." The archer shrugs. "Maybe he doesn't _want _to be found."

This gives Tony pause for all of two seconds. "I don't buy it." His eyes catch Natasha, perched on a barstool, focused on a tablet. "You're awfully quiet, Agent Romanoff," he says, crossing his arms. "You know something?"

"I know a lot of things, Stark, some of which I'm sure would blow your mind." She straightens up, looking him in the eye. "You're being paranoid."

"And you're being evasive," he shoots back, just before Jarvis interrupts.

"Director Fury is requesting entry to the premises."

"Well, would you look at that," Tony mutters. "It's my prime suspect, right on time."

"Tony," comes Steve's warning.

"Well, let's see what the manipulative bastard has to say," Tony says. "Let him in, Jarv."

* * *

"Where is he?"

"Funny," Fury says. "I was about to ask you the same question, Stark. What are you up to now?"

"What am _I _up to?"

"Yes. Where is Doctor Banner?"

Tony is actually speechless. It takes him a long moment to respond, but finally he says, low and quiet, "What have you done with him, Fury? Quit this stupid charade. What SHIELD hellhole are you keeping him in?"

Fury considers him for a long moment. "I haven't done _anything_ to him." He looks around the room, surveying each of them in turn. "So who's going to tell me what's going on here? Captain? Agent Barton? What has Doctor Banner gotten up to?"

No one responds, so Fury continues. "Really, people? Banner just drops off the radar, and you expect me to believe that none of you know where he went?"

The room goes completely still. Even Thor stops eating.

And then, very quietly, Steve says, "What do you mean, _he fell off your radar_? What kind of radar was he on?"

"We just keep track of his whereabouts," Fury replies, voice cool.

"You told him he wasn't a prisoner. Was that a lie?" Tony glares angrily at Fury. "Because you're sure acting like there's been some sort of jailbreak here."

"SHIELD monitors potential threats," Fury answers, leveling Tony an icy glare.

"Oh, so is this mansion like a glorified jail cell for all of your _potential threats_, then?"

"That's enough, Tony," Steve says, steel in his voice.

Fury glares back, glancing around at all of them, but otherwise doesn't react.

"So where is he, Nick?" Tony asks. "In a cage on the helicarrier? Or have you learned from your mistakes?"

But Fury's not looking at him. He glances over his shoulder, looking at Natasha. "Nothing to add, Agent Romanoff?"

The attention shifts to the two of them. Natasha remains motionless, meeting Fury's gaze glare for glare.

Eventually, he says softly, "You were supposed to be keeping an eye on him, Romanoff."

The silence is suddenly so much thicker. Steve gets up, glances between Natasha and Fury, opens his mouth as if to say something, and then seems to think better of it. He settles for just staring at Natasha, hurt and betrayal evident on his face.

Tony's face is dark. "A traitor to the end, aren't you?"

She looks actually stricken. "No, I -"

"If I may interrupt, Agent Hill has issued a Level 6 alert. An attack on Philadelphia has been detected," Jarvis says, smoothly cutting off her response.

Steve's face goes into battle mode almost immediately. "Let's go," he says firmly.

"This isn't over," Tony snaps, still staring angrily between Fury and Natasha.

"Later, Tony," Steve orders. "We have work to do."

* * *

Late in the night, Bruce Banner pulls his hood as far forward as he can get it. He ducks his head, and heads out into the rain, in the streets of Guadalajara, Mexico.


	8. Power is Relative

**A/N: Yeah. So. I'm back, and after over 12 hours on airplanes, I only have one finished chapter to show for it. Sorry sorry sorry. I'm working on it, I promise, but I'm very busy getting ready to move into my dorm. So enjoy this one - hopefully the next will be ready soon.**

**Oh. It's not beta read. Because my beta is busy too, and I was anxious to post it. So apologies for any and all mistakes. Thanks for reading! :)**

"You know where he is."

Clint doesn't phrase it as a question, so Natasha doesn't treat it as one. She just continues getting ready, swiftly clipping on her utility belt and checking the safeties on three firearms.

"Why didn't you say something?"

There are hundreds of answers she can give, from plausible deniability to its none of our business, but she decides on the truth. "He asked me not to."

Clint crosses his arms, outfitted fully for battle. Natasha doesn't look at him when she speaks. "We had to let him go. It's his decision where he wants to be, and stopping him from leaving would only make us just as bad as everyone else he's ever known. To get him to trust us, we have to trust him."

The archer doesn't react, and though he doesn't show it, Natasha knows he doesn't believe her. But after a moment he nods once and strides to the door.

"Come on, Romanoff. We've got work to do."

* * *

There's a loud crash of glass on glass as the empty bottle of scotch joins its brothers in the recycling bin Pepper insisted be in every room. Tony stares at the small pile for longer than necessary, silently willing one of them to speak to him before turning to examine the liquor cabinet for his next best friend.

"Drinking won't bring you answers."

Tony whirls around, almost tumbling to the floor in an attempt to face the voice as soon as possible. A strong hand catches his upper arm and steadies him.

Tony has to blink a few times before he recognizes the old fashioned haircut. "No, but it makes me feel better," Tony slurs, trying to pull his arm away from the super soldier.

"Does it?" Steve asks quietly, but he lets Tony go.

It's all Tony can do to muster up an appropriate scowl. His brain isn't functioning well enough to come up with anything more poetic, so he murmurs a quiet, "Fuck you, Rogers," and turns away, fully intending a dramatic storm out of the room.

He falls short of that plan, though, as he trips over the leg of a chair he can't ever remembering putting in this room. Steve catches him deftly again. Tony doesn't have the energy to yank himself away again, so he lets Steve guide him to the couch. "You don't understand," Tony tells him.

"I may not understand what the two of you had," Steve replies, face far too tense for his words. "But he was my friend, too, Tony. Just because he wasn't my boyfriend - "

"What?" Tony demands in a split second of lucidity. "Is that what you think this is? That we were together and he just walked out on me?" He laughs loudly. "We weren't together. Besides, people don't just _walk out_ on Tony Stark." This time his laugh is darker, subdued. "We were friends. I thought he cared."

"Just because he left doesn't mean he didn't - "

"Like hell it doesn't!" Tony snaps. "Let's face it, Steve. He never cared about us. We were just another third world country to him, in need of his help. Just another stop on the map on his way around the world. We were never his friends."

"Of course we were - " Steve tries again, but Tony cuts him off just as quickly.

"_No_. You just don't walk out on friends without so much as a goodbye," Tony insists, head in his hands.

"There has to have been something we didn't know about," Steve says quietly. "Banner's a private person. There's a lot about him we didn't know. That he didn't _want_ us to know."

"Would you stop playing devil's advocate for ten seconds and at least pretend to be upset?" Tony snaps, hands dropping so he can glare at Steve uninhibited.

Even drunk off his ass, Tony recognizes the anger as it flashes across Steve's face. "I _am_ upset," he replies, voice frigid. "I'm supposed to be leading this team, and suddenly one of its members just ups and leaves without a word to anyone. How do you think _I _feel, Tony, when it's suddenly all too clear that I don't even know my own team well enough to recognize when they're having trouble?"

Tony's drunk, and depressed, but it seems to him that there's only one appropriate response to that. He stands up and presses his lips against Steve's.

It's sloppy, and Steve's mouth seems frozen against his for a long moment, but just as Tony's about to pull back and congratulate himself on screwing up yet another friendship, he feels Steve push back against him, and kiss him back.

_Well. How 'bout that._

* * *

If someone had asked Brianna a year ago where she wanted to be in life, being a single mother raising the child of a superhuman would not have been anywhere on her list.

When Natasha tells her all of Bruce's background that he never offered, Brianna finds that she can't bring herself to hate him.

She's unbelievably pissed and violently angry and ready to give him a good slap to the face because that's what a man who abandons his child and its mother deserves. But she doesn't hate him.

She feels sorry for him, and wonders if she would have done the same thing after wrecking cities and being hunted by the government and watching her life crumble around her because of a lab accident.

She doesn't think so, but decides she can't be sure.

Brianna also wonders why Natasha bothers to tell her anything at all, and, frankly, why she even comes over to the apartment once a week at minimum. She asks her one day.

Natasha just shrugs and smiles. "I love babies," is her only response.

Brianna's pretty sure it has to be more than that; she loves children too and never goes to visit her friends when their kids are around.

(Secretly, she thinks that's probably because perfectly happy family scenes still seem to leave her ever the slightest bit bitter.)

She misses her mom even more now. She finds herself desperately wishing for advice about rising this kid she was so bent on having but now often feels completely lost when she's holding him or feeding him or putting him to bed. Sometimes she wonders why the universe saw fit to take away her mother so early, before she or Brianna was ready.

Then again, she supposes she could also ask the universe why it had given her Bruce for her baby's father. Asking such questions really doesn't offer much in terms of results.

Still, she finds herself wishing and questioning and wondering all the more when she sits on hold with half a dozen daycare centers before she finally finds one that has an opening and is in her price range and is willing to take a baby.

She tells this to Natasha, who frowns and asks Brianna at least fifty questions about her job and her family and her plans. Brianna thinks it strange at the time, but she forgets about it amidst Robbie and work and bills, until one day she finds a check on her kitchen table for more money than she makes in six months.

Natasha never mentions it, so Brianna never brings it up. She spends the money that appears regularly only as she needs it, and saves the rest in an account for Robbie's future.

She's determined to make sure her son can skip the plaintive scholarship essays and frazzling loan applications and struggle to prove his worth to a group of entitled, tenured professors peering down their noses at yet another kid from the city.

She feels a little bad about keeping the money, but she labels it as child support from the absent father and decides after almost a month of consideration to keep her situation out of the courts.

The last thing she wants is more pity.

She's been on the receiving end of it more than once and wants to rid herself of every ounce she can. She's not just a poor girl from the city with a deadbeat dad and a mother that works three jobs instead of showing up for parent teacher conferences that were scheduled because her daughter's grade in seventh grade art isn't quite what it should be.

No. She's a successful woman, now, that makes enough to support herself and enjoy some simple small pleasures. She'd thought she had everything she wanted in life.

Okay, so she hadn't been able to sustain a relationship for more than four months. There was always something wrong; usually she fought constantly with every guy she got involved with after month one, and by month three they'd both be more than ready to part ways.

Once there had been a guy, Brian she thinks his name was, who'd rarely disagreed with her at all. She broke up with him before month three even got off the ground. He was too passive, too weak. Only later did she realize that she'd broken up with him because they hadn't fought enough.

The universe more or less dumped Bruce Banner in her lap (more literally than probably advisable), and who was she to say no when she was clearly a nonexpert on any sort of relationship?

She had never not anyone who infuriated her more.

And yet somehow that was appealing. He was nothing like any guy she had ever dated, and, though they technically hadn't really dated, that made him exciting and new and intriguing. She couldn't throw any of her usual complaints at him - clingy controlling lazy ignorant rude - so arguments and conversations were uncharted territory, something she'd never experienced before.

She'd thought all guys were fundamentally the same, but then Bruce Banner had walked into her life and she'd had to reconsider that view.

Suddenly, she had something new and fun in her life, a man who was tied to her through the baby inside her. And before she'd even called him, she'd decided that she didn't resent this baby, that she wanted, more desperately than she had originally realized, that she wanted this baby, she was so certain that it was the missing piece of the puzzle, the final element that she'd been missing all these years.

She loves her son. Unconditionally and unrestrainedly. She felt unrepressed joy at holding him in her arms, and she has no regrets about anything she's done in the past ten months.

But she doesn't have the completion she was expecting. She's still missing something, she just doesn't know what, and she can't go in search of it now.

So she gets up, takes Robbie to daycare, and goes to work instead of focusing on the questions running rampant inside her head.

* * *

She almost drops Robbie the first time it happens.

One minute she's calmly feeding her six month old child, and the next a screaming _green_ infant is in her arms.

She tries to calm him and her heart at the same time, but ends up having to rush to the bathroom to throw up. Then she holds him to her until he calms down. it's almost twenty minutes before he approaches a normal skin tone.

She forgets to go to work. Instead she sits on the couch, staring at her baby, trying to figure out what this means. She promises herself she won't cry, that she won't _let _Bruce be right. She can handle this, just like every other challenge she's faced in life.

It's about an hour later when she's grabbing for the phone.

"Hey, Natasha?" It's Brianna. I...I need your help. Really."


	9. Misguided Yearnings

**A/N: Alright, friends, here's the deal. I'm moving on Tuesday, which means I'm busy shopping and packing, and then after I move I will be at rehearsals for 12 hours a day for about a week. No promises on when the next update will be, and for that I'm sorry. So here's this one, which also has not been reviewed by my beta/coauthor, but I'd like to post it now before things get any busier. Thanks again for reading!**

Bruce hasn't seen any sign of SHIELD anywhere around him. He's sure they're searching; they can spout words like trust and freedom all they want, they still see him as a threat (sometimes he sees himself as a threat) and so he knows they're looking for him.

So he keeps moving. He hitches rides and stows away, and when that doesn't work, he walks.

He stops for the longest in Honduras, helping where he can. But the people are too poor to even pay a doctor. He takes off at the first mention of _periodista _and _cámara._

He spends a good amount of time in Colombia, maybe two weeks, but someone brings an abandoned baby to him, and the woman's distressed mutterings of _huérfano_ keep him up for two nights before he gathers his things and takes off.

In Peru he wonders how it's possible that every other patient he has is a pregnant woman who's husband is dead or missing or simply gone. He only lasts eight days before leaving there.

He shoulders his bag and starts on the dusty road, hoping for a better turn out next time.

* * *

It's only three days into Bolivia before he finds himself patching up a little boy, who's mother is trying desperately to speak with him in the most rapid Spanish he's ever heard. He's rusty, and Spanish was never one of his strengths to begin with. He finds himself wishing Natasha were here to translate for him.

He mentally shakes himself as he carefully splints the little boy's arm. That was a different life, one he can't go back to, and reminding himself of it won't help him at all. So he smiles in what he hopes is a comforting way. "Está bien, señora," he says, cutting off her tirade. "Todo está bien," and he accepts the few coins she drops into his hand, and smiles until they're out of sight.

That night he sits in the tiny tent he's erected for himself and holds his passport in one hand, idly flipping through the pages and letting his fingers trace the ink and paper.

When he finally goes to replace it, his fingers hit an object in the side pocket of his bag he doesn't remember putting there.

His heart stops for a moment when he recognizes Natasha's flowing handwriting on the outside of the envelope, where she's written his name.

He opens it with hands he refuses to admit are shaking, watching dully as his Stark Industries phone and a piece of paper fall out.

It's a picture of the team, mid-battle. He thinks it's from New York, during their first fight together, and he can't help the guilt that washes over him. He has to turn the photo over to avoid their gazes, and he's surprised when he finds more of Natasha's writing there.

_You're welcome back anytime. Don't worry about SHIELD, I'll handle it. Take care._

He stares at the note until he can't see straight anymore in the little light he's procured. He falls asleep with it still in his hand, wondering if he's made the biggest mistake of his life by leaving this time.

* * *

"You're not going to get anything out of me, Stark, no matter how many times you try." Natasha's sitting at the kitchen table, a stack of paperwork in from of her that she's filling out with the speed of someone who's filled out so many of the same forms she doesn't need to look for the signature lines anymore.

Tony perches on the table in front of the stack. "I could automate all that, you know," he says, fingering one of the sheets. "Bring SHIELD into the twenty-first century, save everyone some time."

Natasha slaps his hand away while continuing to fill out her forms with her other hand, but there's a half-smile on her face. "I think Fury would lose his other eye before letting you near SHIELD's servers." She glances up at him briefly before returning to her work. "If you're here to question me again, get started. I have work to do, agents to harass, and directors to avoid."

"You could just tell me what the hell is going on and save us both the trouble."

"I thought you didn't trust me," she mutters without looking up.

"I don't," he agrees, voice neutral. "But I could use something to work with. Some bad lies, at least."

Natasha chuckles. "But then where would the fun be? You're less annoying when you're occupied."

"Natasha, I'm not joking. I just want to make sure he's okay."

"You just enjoy meddling. It's time to let your obsession go."

"Banner's wellbeing in not an _obsession_," he snaps back angrily. He opens his mouth, ready to launch into a tirade, but, as if on cue, the alarm sounds.

"Do you plan these attacks?" Tony snaps, glaring at Natasha's back as she strides out of the room.

* * *

The last place Steve wants to be after battle is sitting in Fury's office, still in full uniform. He drains his fourth water bottle and sets it down with the others in front of him just as Fury strides into the room.

Steve straightens up automatically. "Sorry to come so late, sir."

"It's all the same to me, captain," Fury says. "What can I do for you?"

"I wanted to know..." Steve pauses, staring hard at the desk. "I wanted to know whether there's been any news about Banner."

Fury stares at him for a moment. "No news as of yet," he says, leaning back in his chair. "But don't worry, captain. We _will_ find him."

Steve swallows hard at the almost threatening statement, blinking as an uncomfortable feeling settles in his stomach. "Keep me updated," he forces himself to say before muttering a quick good night and taking his leave.

* * *

_Gun shots. Overwhelming fear, running through the forest, the enemy could be anywhere. Bucky running beside him, face focused, like on every mission, and the fear melts away, because they know what they're doing, they've done this before, and he and his friends can accomplish anything._

_But then Bucky seems farther away, out of reach, and Steve's stomach sinks even as he calls out in the darkness. "We need to stick together," but Bucky's so far away now, and he can't reach him, and he's falling but now Bucky looks like Banner and he can't even think straight because he's chasing the receding figure as fast as he can but not even the serum can catch him and Steve is powerless to stop it, powerless to bring save his friend and -_

Steve wakes up, drenched in sweat, heart pounding in his chest like he's at training camp again. He rolls over, trying to calm back down, before realizing that he's ripped the comforter clean in two.

Sighing, he rolls over to look at the clock. 5:13. He rolls out of bed and stumbles to the bathroom, leaning on the sink. He splashes cold water on his face before staring at himself in the mirror. _It's 2013, _he reminds himself. _We're not at war, and Bucky's gone. You can't do anything about that._

He barely even notices when his fist smashes into the mirror, shattering it into pieces.

* * *

He's sitting at the table, slowly eating a bowl of Raisin Bran when Clint strides into the kitchen, freshly showered, and starts digging through the pantry in search of something. "Morning, cap," he calls over his shoulder.

Steve doesn't respond for awhile, but eventually he looks over at the archer dressed in his SHIELD uniform, eating peanut butter out of the jar. "What happens when SHIELD finds Banner?"

Clint blinks a couple of times before shrugging. "I'm not sure," he says, deftly hopping up to sit on the counter. "I was never part of the Hulk Project."

"The Hulk Project?" Steve echoes, feeling a little ill, though he hasn't gotten sick since the serum.

Clint swallows before responding. "That's what we call it. It has some long ass official SHIELD title, Bruce Banner Observation Analysis and Threat Neutralization Team, or something like that."

"Threat Neutralization," Steve repeats, suddenly not very hungry.

Clint shrugs again, though his expression is dark. "Or something like that. Like I said, I was never part of the project. I'm not familiar with their plans and protocols."

Steve shakes his head. "He's a human being. Surely they can't - "

"Steve, this is SHIELD," Clint interjects smoothly. "They have one goal, and one goal only: to protect the planet and the people on it. Don't kid yourself. They will go to any lengths they deem necessary to achieve that goal. One person's life is nothing in the grand scheme of things, that's agency policy. It happens all the time; hell, I've done it myself multiple times. Nat ever tell you how she joined SHIELD?"

"No," Steve admits.

"She was a threat, and I was sent to kill her." Clint says calmly, matter-of-factly. "But I decided against it, convinced her to join SHIELD, to work on our side. My point is, people SHIELD considers dangerous die every day."

"But they can't kill Banner," Steve says slowly.

Clint nods in agreement. "No, or I think they would have done so a long time ago, instead of spending the money on a cage."

"So what's their plan, then? When they find him again?"

"I told you, I don't know," Clint says, hopping off the counter to return the peanut butter to the pantry. "I could probably find out, though."

* * *

He knows he can't turn the phone on. SHIELD would know where he is within minutes. But Bruce still keeps it in his pocket.

Sometimes, when he gets a break in between cases of malnutrition and dehydration and cholera and minor injuries, he reaches into his pocket and touches it. He's not sure whether he does it to remind himself that he still has somewhere to go back to, or to force himself to remember, to feel every ounce of guilt he deserves.

It's a little of both, he expects.

Still, he can't seem to get himself to leave his phone in his bag. He tells himself it's a deterrent, a way to keep himself from having an incident. If he hulks out, he'll almost definitely lose the phone. That thought is a better control agent than all of the yoga and meditation he's ever done.

Sometimes he dreams about Brianna yelling at him, verbally eviscerating him until he knows what to do, knows how to rid himself of all of the guilt he's accumulated.

It's sad, he thinks, that his good dreams are of a woman yelling at him.

At least he doesn't wake up in a sweat after nightmares of waking up in a pile of rubble with the people he cares about lying dead around him.

The yelling is a nice change.


	10. Uneventful Experimentation

**A/N: Hello, lovelies! All moved and settled (and yet still busy) but I have a chapter for you! I've got lots of classes and rehearsals and practices (and of course fun) going on here, so it'll probably be a little bit of time between updates. Additionally, I'm taking a writing seminar where the professor is encouraging us to have faith in our own writing and stop trying to conform to everyone else's expectations, so I'm going to be going on that track and forgoing a beta for the foreseeable future. I really do think I'm becoming a better writer through this class (albeit slowly) so that's good news for you! Yay! Thanks for reading! Enjoy!**

"It's going to be okay."

"How is this possibly ever going to be "okay"?" Brianna snaps back, just a tinge of desperation in her tone as she buries her head in her hands. "In what world does this equal "okay"?"

Natasha is calm in the face of her anger. "We'll figure it out," she murmurs in a voice Brianna supposes is meant to be soothing.

"My son turns green!" Brianna grounds out, glaring up at the all-too-calm woman in front of her.

Natasha grabs her shoulders and shakes her, hard. "Now is not the time for hysterics," she says. "You can handle this. But not if you're freaking out like some stupid girl. Your son needs you, now more than ever, but he doesn't need a hysterical, useless mother."

It takes three calming breaths before Brianna is collected enough to reply. "You're right," she finally gets out. "Of course you're right. But how...what do we even..." she trails off, staring over at Robbie, asleep quietly in his crib. "I don't know what to do," she whispers.

Natasha nods. "That's why you called me. You need to know what we're up against. If the agency I work for finds out Robbie even exists, I can guarantee you'll never see him again. I've made sure his birth records never crossed their radar, but if they hear anything about a green child, I won't be able to hide anything anymore."

Brianna sinks down onto the couch, pressing her fingertips into her temples. "I can't lose him," she whispers, voice petal soft from between her gingers. She waits for Natasha to respond, but after a few moments of silence Brianna raises her head up to look at the pale redhead standing impassively before her. "Tell me what we have to do," she says, voice sounding much stronger than she feels.

The other woman is all business, though Brianna thinks she sees the ghost of a smile playing around her mouth. "First things first," she replies, glancing over at Robbie. "We need to figure out what causes his incidents."

* * *

"Well, what causes Bruce to change?" Brianna finds herself asking. It's curiosity, more than anything, but it's at least a place to start, seeing as she knows next to nothing about this entire complicated mess she's found herself in.

"An increase in heart rate, which causes him to lose control and the Hulk to take over."

"An increase in heart rate," Brianna repeats with a frown.

"Usually triggered by strong emotions. Anger is the general cause, but fear and shock have been know to work as well," she replies, though her brisk tone is just a little muted.

"Or sex," Brianna muses out loud, her own heart just a little too fast.

Natasha glances up at that, meeting her eyes for a moment. "I suppose so," she agrees, expression inscrutable. "I wouldn't know."

The silence trails on for long, long minutes, before Brianna forcibly thaws her insides enough to focus on the issue at hand again. "Let's get started," she says.

* * *

Three hours later and they've gotten _nowhere._

Well, Brianna supposes wryly, not nowhere. They now know dozens of different events and actions that don't cause Robbie to change. Hunger, thirst, separation from her, minor pain (Brianna almost smacked Natasha when she pinched Robbie's arm and he erupted into tears), tiredness, frustration when Natasha repeatedly took his toys from him.

Thos injustices to a six month old trigger completely normal, predictable temper tantrums that any community college psychology professor could explain. But they have yet to instigate the problematic change in skin tone that's the subject of their experimentation.

Brianna falls back onto the couch with a small huff, brow furrowed as she stares at the wall behind the TV. "What the hell could it be?" she nearly groans. "We've tried everything."

"No, just everything we can think of," Natasha corrects. "Clearly we're missing something."

"But what?"

"If I knew that, we wouldn't be missing it." Natasha shakes her head slowly. "I don't know," she admits as her red hear bounces gently as she turns her head.

"I wish Bruce were here," Brianna murmurs, surprised by the sudden intensity with which she misses the quiet, frustratingly mild mannered man.

"And I wish I had killed Stalin when I had the chance," Natasha says. "But wishing is useless. A child's way of making excuses. We have to work with what we have."

"And what do we have?"

"We have two women and a baby. Somehow, that has to be enough."

* * *

"Why are you stalking me, Agent Barton?" Agent Hill is brisk, spinning around to confront him after less than two minutes of him walking a few feet behind her.

"Stalking's a pretty strong word, don't you think?" he asks, throwing in a smile for good measure. He refuses to let it fade when her face remains painfully unimpressed. "C'mon, can't a fellow agent walk with a coworker?"

Hill's right eyebrow lifts toward her hairline, but she turns on her heel. "Not without some ulterior motive, in my experience," she responds as she strides off.

Clint quickly falls in step (albeit a very large, quick step). "Not exactly one for exchanging pleasantries, are you?"

"Do you want to waste my time contemplating the weather and feigning an interest in the mundane aspects of my daily life, or do you want to tell me what it is you want?"

_Women._ Clint thinks with a sigh. "You're head of the Hulk project, right?"

"That is one of my many duties here at SHIELD, yes."

"So hey, I've been wondering," he continues. "What's up with this whole thing? The guy just up and leaves in the middle of the night, what's with that?"

"Banner has a history of being an escape risk," Hill replies without a pause. "In hindsight, it was a highly likely outcome that should have been considered and planned for."

"How was it overlooked, then, if it was so obvious?"

Hill shoots him what he can only consider a death glare. "It appeared after the events in New York that he was stable. He appeared to be a functioning member of the Avengers team, and as such, was easily kept track of. The threat was deemed minimal, and staff was reduced and relocated to work on more pressing projects."

"You let your guard down," Clint summarizes in a tone probably just a little too patronizing.

Hill stops in her tracks, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. "Are you really only here to pas judgment on my leadership decisions, or is there something you actually want to know?"

_Defensive, aren't we?_ "Hey, hey, I'm not judging anyone. Everyone's just pretty upset about the whole thing, and I wanted to know from someone reliable what the whole thing was about."

"Don't worry yourself, Barton," Hill says. "The whole situation will be rectified soon."

"Oh, so you've found him, then?"

Hill starts walking once more, which is all the answer Clint needs to that question. "Not yet, but we will soon."

"And then what?" Clint presses. "You give him a stern talking to and a slap on the wrist and he goes on his merry way?"

They've reached her office, and she turns to level him one final glare. "Yet to be determined," she says. "But one thing's for certain: Banner's too dangerous and unreliable to be left on his own."

* * *

When he repeats the conversation to Steve that night, the supersoldier is quiet and just nods along, the only sign that he's heard Clint speak at all.

* * *

When he tells Natasha when she gets in late that night, her expression is equally inscrutable. It's not until later, when they're lying in bed, that she finally mutters, "We should keep SHIELD off his trail."

Clint stares at the ceiling, mildly annoyed at her choice of post-coital conversation topics. "Why do we owe him anything?"

"What would you do if they were trying to lock me up?"

The answer is immediate and strong. "I'd take out anyone and everyone I needed to stop that from happening."

"He's one of us, Clint."

He doesn't respond, but they both know he'll do what she wants.

* * *

When Bruce returns to consciousness, his first feelings are of confusion, tinged with a slight hint of fear. He doesn't remember transforming at all, and so he doesn't understand why he's nearly naked among the ruins of what my, at sometime, have been someone's home.

He lets his head drop back in a moment of surrender to the feelings of exhaustion and helplessness swirling around in his mind. He doesn't even remember having a _chance_ to fight it this time.

He inwardly scoffs at himself as he picks himself up fro the rubble. _And you thought, maybe, that you could be around a child? Be a _father _to a child?_ It's clear, ever so clear, that his instinct to run was the only part of his subconscious that had any idea what it was doing.

Later that night, while he's drowning his sorrows in whiskey at some cheap rundown bar, the fuzzy news channel coming through on the ancient TV reports on the death of two known drug lords, who fell victim to a bizarre, unexplained animal attack, but he's too stuck in his inner mantra of self-loathing to take any notice.

* * *

Robbie is quiet all night, which Brianna finds equally as strange as his green episode. He doesn't cry or scream or make much of any sound at all, and twice she gets up for the sole purpose of making sure he's still breathing.

But her son is fine, and spends his night alternately napping and watching the mobile above his crib turn endlessly.

His mother sits on the couch, a book she's forgotten the title of in her lap. She tries to watch TV, but she just wants to strangle the designers on Project Runway and knock some sense into the doctors on Grey's Anatomy, running around, whining about their petty, insignificant little problems. She puts on a brainless action flick instead, but barely watches the first fight scene.

She promises herself that her tears are only those of anger and defiance, and that in the morning she'll be stronger and not cry anymore because Bruce was not right.

He can't have been right.


End file.
